More Than a Memory
by V. Emily
Summary: "It was when he'd finally felt the repercussions of the week, finally felt the cracks in his resolve. When he finally realized...she wasn't coming back." Tragedy struck the LA team months ago, but Deeks is still a wreck. As he suffers, Hetty gets an idea…*crossover w/ the original "NCIS" in CHAPTER TWO, not one* Angst with a capital 'A' and some H/C later.


**As promised, here's my next project. It's not a very long one, but I hope you like it. **

**Ever heard the Garth Brooks song "More Than a Memory"? No? Well, now you need to! :) It's a truly amazing song by a truly amazing artist, and it was the inspiration for this two-shot, which I hope is also truly amazing! **

**This was going to be a one-shot, and then I decided it'd be fun to drag the original _NCIS _fans into it, too. But the actual crossover doesn't start until chapter two, so if you're looking for Gibbs and the gang, you'll have to wait until then! Sorry, guys.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own _NCIS: Los Angeles_. I also am a very peppy person and am not depressed. Just wanted to throw that in before you read 4,500 words of complete angst.**

**This will be a line-by-line song-fic (all lyrics are in italics). Scene transitions are marked only by the gray lines like the one below. Enjoy! I'm done rambling! -V.**

* * *

_ People say she's only in my head..._

_ It's gonna take time, but I'll forget..._

The day was mockingly sunny as Marty Deeks took his walk. He left his canine companion, Monty, at home, as he had made a habit of doing these days. When he found that Monty's slobbery dog smile couldn't make him happy, he had begun to walk alone every evening. When he took Monty outside early in the afternoons, Deeks didn't throw a tennis ball or go running or participate in any of the man's-best-friend activities that he normally did. Being alone let Deeks think, and sometimes that was a blessing and a curse.

He'd never been much of a thinker before recent months. Then, he'd suddenly been slapped in the face with a barrage of things that demanded to be thought about.

Deeks reached his destination soon enough, and immediately felt the weight of emotion fall over him again. It was always stronger here, in this place that served as an incessant reminder of reality. He knew he shouldn't come so often, but it was out of his control. No matter what route he walked, Deeks always somehow ended up here.

The cemetery.

Everything was, of course, how it had been yesterday and the day before and so on, and so on. Deeks passed Jan Field's tombstone, Robert James's, and five more, all belonging to people he had never known. They were only names in a row, landmarks on the way to the one he wanted to see.

It was the eighth grave in the third row, a newer stone of polished white marble. Around it lay four bouquets of flowers, all wilted, as if they too were in mourning. None of the flowers were from Deeks. But there was a letter in a sealed envelope that lay partially hidden beneath a picture frame next to the headstone. No one would open it.

These were the details that Deeks did not notice as he approached the grave. Today, there were other things to see. Next to the headstone stood two mysterious men - a tall-ish white guy with a faded haircut and a very intimidating African-American. Both kept their eyes on the former LAPD detective as he approached.

"Deeks," Callen greeted grimly as the blonde approached.

"H-Hey, guys," Deeks seemed started to see them. He was used to being the only one in the cemetery this close to closing time. He was used to being alone with her, and he cherished that privacy. "Why are you here?"

"To talk to you," Sam answered.

"You knew I'd show up?" Deeks's voice was soft and questioning, the tone of a warrior done fighting. His forehead creased as he asked the question.

"We figured," Callen said with nonchalance. "Look, Deeks, I'll get to the point. This isn't healthy for you."

"What's not healthy for me?"

"This!" Trying to keep his voice level, Callen gestured around the cemetery.

Sam added, "You don't talk at work, you barely sleep, and do you even eat?"

Deeks didn't answer. Instead, he stared down at his feet and at the well-trimmed cemetery grass.

"We're trying to help," Callen informed him, his lowered voice evidence of their concern. "It's Saturday, Deeks. Take Monty for a run. Eat out. Have fun."

Deeks clenched a fist at his side, giving his reply like a teenager frustrated with Algebra. "I...I _can't_."

"We'll go with you," Sam offered.

"Yeah, how about the bistro on Angel Street?" suggested Callen.

"You guys go ahead," said Deeks quietly. "Maybe I'll go another time."

_ They say I need to get on with my life..._

"Deeks, this really isn't good for you," Callen said. "It's been five months. It's hard, okay? But...eventually, you need to get on with it. Everyone's been worried about you."

"We know it's not easy, Deeks," said Sam.

"No, you don't!" Deeks snapped, anger rising inside of him like bubbles in boiling water. "She was just an agent."

Callen interjected, "Deeks, she was our friend, too. Just like you."

"No!" said the detective again. Tears had begun to surge down his scruffy cheeks. The sal****er found its way into the crevices by his nose, the corners of his lips, the bristles of his half-beard. "She was my partner! She was my _best friend_!"

"We all know what you're going through-"

"You can't!"

"I've lost a partner, Sam's lost a partner...we've all lost someone, Deeks. We know."

"We all miss her, Deeks."

"But you didn't love her!" Deeks yelled, his face bathed in moisture and his eyes sorrowful. His exclamation hung in the air as the two senior agents stared at him.

Deeks repeated in a near whisper, "You didn't love her."

Callen and Sam shared a resigned look, then took in the sight of Deeks. He wasn't a bit of the clowning smart-mouth that he'd been five months ago. They remembered his radiant, goofy smile, like the one he'd flashed on the day he turned in his LAPD resignation and NCIS application. They remembered how he'd pranced around the OSP center when he officially became an agent, flashing his new badge to every random co-worker he saw. They remembered how the whole team had been in such a great mood that morning. Deeks even dared to pull his partner into the middle of the bullpen and spin her around in a mocking ballroom dance. She'd told him to cut it out with a few choice words, but she was laughing, and she only wanted to stop as much as Deeks did.

Her laughter echoed in Callen's and Sam's minds as they stared at the silently-sobbing man before them. A transformed Deeks, a hurting one. There was nothing more to laugh at in the OSP.

They knew also that there was nothing more to do for Deeks, not today. He'd reached his limit. The senior agents hesitantly left the cemetery, and as usual, Deeks was now the only one left in the quiet graveyard.

Blurring tears still leaking from his reddened eyes, Deeks sank down to sit next to the headstone. His letter to her was beginning to yellow around the edges, the elements taking their toll on it. Deeks wished she could read it. He'd wished a lot of things in the past five months.

Hand shaking, he let his finger trace the valleys and hills of the letters engraved on the headstone. So clean and precise, the letters made the words look alien, not at all the way Deeks always pictured her name. When he thought it in his head, it was sloppy, like her signature.

_KENSI MARIE BLYE_

_ MARCH 1982 - JUNE 2013_

_ A FRIEND, DAUGHTER, AND PARTNER_

_ DIED PROTECTING THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_

* * *

_ What they don't realize..._

_ ...Is when you're dialing six numbers just to hang up the phone,_

_ Driving 'cross town just to see if she's home..._

The events immediately following her death were one big blur for Deeks, but nothing was clearer in detail than the night after her funeral. It was when he'd finally felt the repercussions of the week, finally felt the cracks in his resolve. When he finally realized...she wasn't coming back.

All the families in the neighboring apartments had jolted awake at the sound of his bloodcurdling scream.

Several of those neighbors had knocked frantically at his door, and two had called the police. Inside, Deeks sat on the carpeted floor, back against the side of his bed and his head in his hands. His whole body shuddered and Deeks's merry cobalt eyes had become like blue ice, frozen and unresponsive.

Somehow, the information in those calls to the police had traveled to NCIS. No one knew how; perhaps it was just that remarkable _knowingness _that only Hetty Lange possessed. At any rate, Sam, Callen, and Hetty had arrived at Deeks's apartment that night just as fast as the LAPD officers that responded to the neighbors' calls. Even Eric and Nell got the call and made their way to the scene.

It was Hetty who found the former detective in his bedroom, eyes and nose as bright red as cherries. She slowly came to stand next to Deeks, about as tall as he was sitting.

"Mr. Deeks," she said simply. They stood there in silence as Deeks leaned his head back. He breathed heavily, like a panicked animal, the breaths catching in his clogged throat.

"I...I can't believe..." he whispered. His words were raspy and hard to make out. "Hetty, she's...she's gone. Kensi's gone."

The minuscule woman rested a withered hand on Deeks's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Deeks."

She said nothing for the moment, but waited to hear if he would say more. He did.

"There's...always something we can do," Deeks continued slowly. "But there's nothing now. Kensi's gone and there's no way I can solve it. Evidence won't make it better. It's not a case. It's not a case and I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Hetty had offered no solution. For once, she did not have an answer.

Now, five months after that night, Deeks was in about this same state. He'd been trained as an investigator, as a cop, as an agent. Deeks was prepared for anything, so he had thought. But no one had trained him for what to do when a corrupted Marine shot the woman he loved. He was helpless, a probie, a child.

The night after Callen and Sam had met him in the cemetery, Deeks picked up his phone. A number flashed through his mind. _"No," _he disciplined himself mentally. _"You know what'll happen. You'll just-"_

He always ignored that voice.

Deeks dialed each digit slowly, hearing the hollow beep that followed the punching of each key. 555-789..._ "Come on, Deeks, three more numbers."_

But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't dial the whole number. He couldn't stand the static at the other end of the line, the emptiness that told him for the millionth time that there was no trace of Kensi left except in him.

Frustrated with himself, Deeks threw down the phone onto his bed. He made up his mind to get out of his apartment for a while. Climbing into his car outside, he made up his mind to drive to his favorite beach, even though it was the middle of the night.

Twenty minutes later, he sat on the edge of the pier, watching the waves and breathing in the mellow night air. He'd never taken Kensi to the beach at night, so this remained one of his few respite from the world.

After a half-hour of watching the stars and letting himself cool down, Deeks headed home. He was actually beginning to enjoy the tranquil ride when, without him realizing it, the roads began to taunt him away from the path home. By the time he recognized the route, he was unresolved to turn back.

Since her shooting, someone else had bought Kensi's house. Deeks was fairly certain that the young couple never noticed him as he sat outside his partner's old home, hands resting on the steering wheel. Deeks knew she wasn't home, knew she never would be. But like metal to a magnet, he was drawn to anything that had once been related to Kensi.

Soon enough, he made himself go.

_Waking a friend in the dead of the night..._

_Just to hear him say it's gonna be all right..._

When he finally reentered his apartment, Deeks once again picked up his phone. This time, however, he didn't call Kensi's number. He had to find a post-it note deep in his dresser drawer with the digits scribbled on it. Five rings later, a husky voice picked up.

"Who the heck is this?!"

"Ray?"

"Marty?" his best friend sounded incredulous. "Hey, man, good to hear from you and all, but it's eleven at night where I am."

"Oh," Deeks said. "Sorry, Ray. How's Jenna and the kid?"

The pride was evident in Ray's voice. "I've got a little girl, Marty, cute as anything. Already deciding what gun I'm gonna use on her first date."

Deeks laughed half-heartedly. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks. So what's up with you? How're things going with, you know, Wikipedia?"

Deeks didn't know if he had been dreading that question or looking forward to it. But there it was.

"She's, uh...Wikipedia...is dead, Ray."

A string of very Ray-like curse words was rattled off on the other end of the line.

"How?" was all Ray asked.

"Shot," replied Deeks softly. "Suspect on our last case together."

"When?"

"Five months ago."

"Did you kill the shooter? Never mind, of course you killed him. ...You did kill him, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Ray, I killed him. And I'd do it a million times over if I could."

There was an eerie silence from both parties of the conversation as Ray mulled over what to say next. He never had been very good with words, always opting for the gruff, suck-it-up type of talk. This wasn't the time to use that tone, however. Deeks was hurt, and he'd called an old friend five months after the fact because he was at a loss for what to do next. The last time Ray had seen him so desperate was when he was eleven years old and was certain that any given night could be his last.

"Marty..." Ray closed his eyes and scratched his grayish scruff. "She was really right for you, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," said Deeks again. Ray could've poked a stick into his soft words. "She was."

"...Did you ever tell her that?"

Deeks gulped and drew a shaky breath before supplying his friend with the answer. "I did. While I was waiting for the ambulance to come for her. While she was dying. I told her...that I loved her, but I don't know if she even heard me. Kensi was good as gone by the time the medics came."

"Tell me you at least kissed her."

Deeks laughed weakly. Typical Ray. "Last spring, we went undercover as a married couple. She kissed me as a cover. I didn't even have time to react. And, uh...last Christmas Eve, she didn't get me a present, so I...I dared her." Deeks chuckled again, and Ray joined in.

"Did she take the dare?" he asked.

"That was what surprised me," Deeks replied. "I was only kidding; I didn't think she'd _actually _kiss me. But she did, and we didn't talk about it after that."

The agent's smile disappeared and he landed a fist on his mattress. "Dang it, Ray, why didn't we just talk about it? Who knows what we could've...what could've happened?"

In the background, Deeks heard the cry of a young child, soon followed by a woman's question. "Ray? Who is it?" Deeks was sure it was Jenna, Ray's wife.

"Hey," said Deeks. "Sounds like I woke up your family...sorry. I...I shouldn't have called."

"Now you listen to me, Marty!" Ray said, his usual demanding tone returning. "There's _always _time to talk to an old friend, especially if that friend's been through hell. ..._Heck_, sorry Jenna."

Deeks opened his mouth to say something when Ray plowed ahead. "And I'm sure as _heck _going to call you again and again until you're okay again. Cause you _will _be okay, Marty, you hear me?"

All Deeks could say was, "Y-Yeah. I hear you."

The baby girl cried in the background again.

"Marty?" Ray asked, lowering his yell to a commanding murmur. "Hey, man. It'll be all right, 'kay? It'll be all right."

A lone tear pooled in Deeks's right eye, and lingered for a moment before dribbling absently down his cheek. "Thanks," he whispered, then hung up the phone.

_When you find the things to do not to fall asleep,_

_ 'Cause you know she'll be there in your dreams..._

It'd gotten late by that time, so Deeks changed into boxers and a white t-shirt before hitting the hay. But as he sat on the edge of his bed, sleepiness weighing his eyelids, he found that he was actually dreading going to sleep.

He knew darn well why, too. It'd been happening for a while.

It wasn't that he had terrible dreams in which Deeks relived Kensi's shooting and the four minutes between the gunshot and her last breath. It wasn't even that his dreams were abstract. He always just dreamed their memories - random snippets of bickering, visits to suspects' houses, walks with Monty, movie nights, kissing her on Christmas Eve (_especially _kissing her on Christmas Eve). The problem was that they were only snippets, tiny bursts of warm weather in a harsh winter, before the blizzards moved back in again. Maybe you think that Deeks should've, therefore, looked forward to his dreams. And perhaps he would've, had the returning of the blizzard not left him so cold.

Instead, most nights, Deeks would put in a movie (he only had a few that he hadn't watched with Kensi) or play Solitaire with himself or attempt to read a really boring book. Around three every morning, he would drift off, the dreams inevitable. In his sleep, for an hour or two, his nose would twitch contentedly. By the time he woke up, his blankets had been thrown onto the bedroom floor and his heart ached with an impossible desire.

_That's when she's more than a memory._

* * *

_Put a match to everything she ever wrote, _

_ Watched her words go up in smoke. _

_ Tore all her pictures off the wall... _

_ Man, that ain't helping me at all._

One day, not long after calling Ray, Deeks found an old note in his desk at work from Kensi. It was a Post-It that instructed him firmly not to eat the Twinkies in the car. When he'd received it months and months ago, Deeks had laughed, but now he couldn't even draw a breath.

That afternoon, he went through all of his desk drawers and took out everything in her penmanship. Stuffing them all in his bag, he brought them home. The only candle he owned was a present from a neighbor and was scented a disgustingly-sweet vanilla, but Deeks decided it would do. The fire reflected in his watery eyes, he held the notes between two of his fingers, watching as they slowly blackened into nothingness.

And about two weeks later, he had that dream about Christmas Eve again and woke up in the early morning with the taste of her still on his lips.

To anyone who might've been awake to look into his apartment windows, Deeks might've seemed like he was in a drunken rage. In reality, he was only a desperately sorrowful man, half-asleep, drenched in a cold sweat, deceived by dreams into thinking that he was still holding the girl he loved.

Each photo frame shattered as it hit the ground. But later, Deeks always salvaged the pictures themselves. Always. Though they were kept in a box under his bed, they were there. There were some things he just couldn't bring himself to do.

* * *

_'Cause when you're talking out loud but nobody's there..._

_ You look like hell, but you just don't care... _

Sometimes, in his sleep, he conversed with himself. Or rather, with the Kensi that still was alive in his subconscious.

"I'll be with you every step of the way," he mumbled. "Even if you don't see me, I'll be there."

Or, "Kensi Private Time needs a little spicing up, does it?"

Or even, "O-Our thing..."

Every once in a blue moon, he awoke in the middle of a word with no idea what he'd been saying. Those times were the least painful.

Deeks kept thinking, kept persuading himself that things would slowly improve, but he was wrong. With each passing day that his partner lay in the cemetery, he found himself becoming wearier and wearier. It felt almost as if someone was gradually drawing the energy from his very bones. But Deeks was too tired to fight any longer, and he let himself drown in his own life, like Jack had drowned in that movie Kensi used to love.

Once, almost six months since Kensi's death, Deeks was half-asleep at his desk when Sam made a comment.

"Deeks," he said, catching the detective's drowsy, drifting attention. "What're you _wearing_?"

"Huh?" Deeks looked down at his "Cheerios" t-shirt. "I got it from a cereal box ad."

"When you were twelve?" Sam guessed. Deeks snorted and shook his head.

"Twenty," said Deeks. "And what's wrong with it?"

"It's...a '_Cheerios' _t-shirt," Callen said. "And we know you like your hair, um, loose, but do you even comb it anymore?"

"What are you two, the fashion police?" Deeks snapped. "I can dress myself, thanks."

Startled by his grouchiness, Callen and Sam backed off. On the outside, Deeks scowled and continued to do his paperwork at a snail's pace. On the inside, he was wishing he had the courage to lay it all in the open, to beg them for the help he knew they would readily give. But, in Deeks's mind, he was past the point of no return. So instead, he let himself crumble. He let himself die inside as if he'd been the one shot instead of Kensi.

* * *

_Drinking more than you ever drank... _

_ Sinking down lower than you ever sank..._

There was a little bar by the ocean that Deeks had made himself a patron of in recent weeks. He'd told himself every day for months that drinking wasn't the right option. Not after living with his father, not after seeing the destruction that a few bottles of alcohol could cause.

And yet, that one night, exactly six months since Kensi's shooting, he kept knocking back the shots with no intent to stop.

Sure, he'd had beers with Kensi on their movie nights, but they were responsible drinkers. He never let her have more than two, and she did the same for him. Deeks lost count of his shots an hour into his latest bar visit, and only stopped when the bartender shoved him away, muttering something about alcohol poisoning and dead surfer boys.

Later, Deeks wouldn't be able to recall just how he ended up in the dingy bathroom of that bar, but there he was. A filthy porcelain toilet occupied one corner, while a tap with tainted water sprouted from the opposite wall. Dizzy on his feet, Deeks managed to lock the door of the one-seater before he vomited the shots into the toilet. His body wasn't used to such large amounts of such strong alcohol in such a small amount of time, and Deeks's stomach let him know.

His sickness ended in desperate tears. What was wrong with him?

Feeling a bit better now (though the blur of drunkenness still remained), Deeks settled on the floor of the despicably dirty bathroom, resting his back on the cracked tiled wall. Nobody knocked on the door and nobody disturbed him as he cried for what seemed like the millionth time these past six months. He didn't care any more if he'd ever considered tears a sign of weakness. _"Yeah, well..." _Deeks thought. "_I _am _weak."_

_When you find yourself falling down upon your knees,_

_ Praying to God, begging him "please..."_

As he sat there in the bar bathroom, engulfed almost entirely by his mental alcohol fog, Deeks heard words in his head. Words he hadn't said since he was five years old, words he was surprised he even still remembered. But, here they were, brought about by some miracle. Or just alcohol. But nevertheless, there they were.

Deeks heard them in a chorus of first-grade voices. Sunday school. He'd stopped going after he turned eight, not because he didn't want to but because his dad wouldn't let him. Deeks had missed Sunday school. It was coloring with old crayons, playing games, and listening to lessons that his teacher had managed to make interesting.

"_Today we're learning a very important prayer. I'm going to toss one student a ball of yarn, and that student will read one line of the Hail Mary prayer on page thirty-eight of your books. Then that student will throw the yarn ball to the next student, who reads the next line. Everybody got it?"_

"_Yes, Mrs. Thatcher!" rang the voices of children dressed in their Sunday best._

His limbs shaking with the effects of his shots, Deeks clutched his stomach in an attempt to prevent another vomiting fit. For the moment, he was successful. Deeks looked heavenward and thought, _"Well, I've tried everything else."_

It almost upset his stomach again to shift onto his knees, but Deeks managed it. He knew how weak his voice sounded as he searched in his stupor for the words. They first two lines came. "H-Hail Mary, full of g-grace...the Lord is w-with thee..." but he had forgotten the rest after that. In a minute or two, he remembered another couplet of lines about halfway through the prayer. They had stuck in Deeks's head because he'd been picked to read them. Actually, he'd been picked to read _one, _but he'd been so excited for his turn that he'd just prattled on until Mrs. Thatcher stopped him.

"Holy M-Mary, Mother of God, pray for us s-sinners, now and...uh...and...and..."

He knew he'd botched the prayer, but Deeks decided that it was the effort that counted. Still, he didn't feel completely satisfied with himself, but he was to drunk to remember anything else he might've learned in those distant Sunday school days.

So he settled for a single word.

"...P-Please..."

Later, when other patrons complained about the only bathroom being occupied too long, the bartender who'd pushed Deeks away came back and hauled his sorry self out of the stall. He then firmly commanded the NCIS agent to go home and get sober before shutting the creaky door of the bar in Deeks's face.

Back at his apartment, Deeks absentmindedly scratched Monty's ears. He ended up digging out one of those pictures of Kensi from under his bed, cracking open a cold beer from his fridge, and murmuring, "Cheers, partner." He watched half of "Titanic" before giving in to sleep on his couch, still fully dressed, reeking with the stench of alcohol, and holding her picture to his chest.

_That's when she's more than a memory._

* * *

**Give me an "A"! Give me an "N"! How about a "G"? Let's hear an "S"! Give me a "T"! What's that spell? "More Than a Memory!" XD**

**Sorry for the extreme angsty-ness in this story. Actually, I'm not, because apparently you read it through to the end, so it must not bother you too terribly. Like I said in the intro, the crew from the original _NCIS _will be a big item in the next chapter? And why, you ask? Guess who's taking a temporary work placement in D.C.? Yup, our favorite cheeky detective, who will still be struggling with the loss of his partner. What can I say? He's just so much fun to whump. **

**Anyway, keep reading and reviewing, and keep a lookout for the next chapter! Or, you know, you could just subscribe to the story...*winkwink* :) -V.**


End file.
